


Tame the ghosts in my head

by oftirnanog



Series: You've got the love I need to see me through [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domesticity, F/F, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Sickfic, Somnial Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftirnanog/pseuds/oftirnanog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn’t think it was possible to want another person this much—not just sexually, though she really does want that, and soon, please—but in every way. In the way she wants to wake up and see Lydia in the bed beside her; in the way she wants the fridge to be stocked with soy milk because Lydia’s lactose intolerant; or the way she wants to find half-finished equations scrawled on the corners of magazines and bills around the house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tame the ghosts in my head

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly just fluffy hurt/comfort, with Peter Hale-related PTSD on Lydia's part. It's fairly brief and only alluded to, but still there.
> 
> Once again this can be read as a stand alone, but you're gonna wanna read [Our way to fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/707388) first, if you want to start at the beginning of the series.
> 
> (Title from 'Lover's Eyes' by Mumford and Sons)

Allison can feel the migraine forming before she’s even fully awake that morning, just a dull throb of tightness behind her eyes and wrapping around the back of her head. She should call in sick, but as always she convinces herself that it won’t get as bad as the last time, pops a few aspirin, and throws on a pair of sunglasses even though it’s cloudy. It’s been a while since she had a migraine and it’s possible she’s forgotten just how debilitating they can be.

She’s brutally reminded halfway through the morning when the dull throbbing turns into crushing pain that’s starting to produce an aura in her peripheral vision. She tries taking her reading glasses off, puts them back on when it makes everything that much worse, then tries swallowing a couple more aspirin with a cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine might take the edge off. 

It doesn’t. And it gets to the point that she can’t move her head without feeling like her brain is crashing into the side of her skull. She’s nauseated and the office lights are harsh, causing her to squint, which might be making the pain worse. It’s hard to tell at this point.

At lunch her co-worker, Annie, finds her with her head down on her desk and her blazer thrown over her head to block the light.

“Allison?” she asks, voice muffled by fabric.

Allison lifts her head carefully, trying not to jar any part of her body, and her blazer falls down to her shoulders. 

“Hm?” she manages.

“Are you okay?”

“Migraine.” 

“Why are you still here? You look awful.”

“Case. Next week. Big. Precedents.” 

“Okay, that wasn’t even a sentence,” Annie says. “I’m going to tell Morris you went home sick.”

Annie pulls her phone out and dials a number.

“You’re calling him?” Allison asks, impressed that she managed a full sentence even if it was through gritted teeth.

“I’m calling you a cab.”

“Oh.”

In the cab, Allison rolls the window down and concentrates all her efforts on not throwing up. Every bump in the road feels like she’s slamming her head against a cement wall and has her swallowing back bile. She’s really very proud of herself when she makes it home in one piece.

She plans to take some more aspirin, change into pajamas, and pull her covers over her head to sleep it off, but after the glass of water accompanying step one, her stomach has other plans. Instead of climbing into bed she finds herself on the bathroom floor with her forehead pressed against the back of the toilet seat willing the nausea to subside. 

At least the porcelain is cool against her skin.

She’s concentrating on breathing slowly, glad for the darkness the toilet bowl provides, when she hears the door closing downstairs, magnified in the worst way by the throbbing in the back of her skull. A closet opens and shuts, keys drop onto a table, a high-pitched voice calls, “Allison?”

Allison groans. Not because Lydia’s home, she thinks that has potential to work in her favour, but because the noise is all too much and her stomach is still roiling unpleasantly.

After a moment she hears footsteps on the stairs and then Lydia saying, “What’s wrong?”

A cool hand finds its way to the back of Allison’s neck, and it’s so welcome and comforting that she thinks she might be okay to let Lydia lead her into bed now. Until she catches a whiff of Lydia’s perfume. It’s enough to render all her efforts of keeping anything down entirely useless.

Lydia’s rubs her hand in soothing circles over Allison’s back.

“You don’t seem to be running a fever,” Lydia says, her hand moving back up to Allison’s neck once she’s finished heaving.

“Migraine.” She sounds exhausted even to her own ears.

Lydia strokes her hand over Allison’s hair, which feels diabolically good, and says, “Well, lets get you into bed.”

Allison sits back from the toilet and lets Lydia help her up. She guides her to the bedroom with an arm around her waist and Allison lets some of her weight fall against her. Lydia helps her take her clothes off and pull on an old t-shirt, and then gently takes all the pins from Allison’s hair. She’s not sure why she didn’t think of that herself, but having her hair down makes a world of difference.

Lydia leaves for a moment and comes back with a glass of water and aspirin.

“I already took some,” Allison says, shaking her head at the thought of ingesting anything.

“I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but you threw those up,” Lydia says.

Allison must make a face because Lydia offers her a sympathetic smile and says, “Just a small sip to get them down.”

Allison concedes and Lydia pulls the covers over her once she’s lying down. Then she sits on the edge of the bed, her fingers stroking softly against Allison’s scalp.

“Anything else I can do?” Lydia asks, and her voice is so quiet Allison almost doesn’t hear her.

“Keep doing that,” Allison mumbles.

The bed shifts as Lydia makes herself more comfortable, but her fingers don’t stop and Allison falls asleep like that, tucked against Lydia’s warmth.

*

When Allison wakes up she finds herself curled against Lydia in a fetal position with her face pressed into her thigh, which she seems to have drooled onto. Lydia’s fingers are still working gently against her scalp. Allison shifts and wipes at her mouth, and then at Lydia’s pants to absolutely zero effect.

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Lydia says with amusement, letting her hand fall from Allison’s head to rub down her shoulder. “That’s about an hour’s worth of saliva there.” She’s still keeping her voice low and though she’s feeling much better, Allison’s grateful for it.

“Sorry,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows and glancing at Lydia. She has her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, the escaped strands tucked behind her ears, and she’s reading an article with impossibly tiny writing.

“If I’d really cared I would have moved you,” Lydia says. She pauses to highlight a few lines and then takes a long look at Allison. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” she says, though the way her voice scrapes would suggest otherwise. She runs her tongue over her teeth, noticing for the first time how terrible her mouth tastes. Lydia hands her the glass of water from the bedside table. “Thanks,” Allison says, taking a tentative sip and then downing half the glass.

“You never told me you get migraines,” Lydia says by way of reply. She’s looking at the article again and Allison can hear that the casual tone is forced.

“I don’t get them very often,” she says, because it’s true, but also because she doesn’t know what else to say. Lydia’s never been around to have to deal with one before and it’s not something Allison really thinks about until it happens.

“Thank God,” Lydia says. There’s an edge to her voice that Allison can’t read.

“Sorry I ruined your afternoon,” she says because Allison’s best guess is that she’s annoyed and trying to hide it.

Lydia drops her article on the bedside table along with the highlighter and turns to look at Allison with a vaguely insulted expression. “That’s not what I meant,” she says. She pauses and crosses her arms. “You were in pretty bad shape.”

Allison blinks at her and then smiles a bit, suddenly realizing where that edge is coming from. She was worried. Leave it to Lydia to make worried sound annoyed as all hell. “It was just a migraine.”

“I’m not sure ‘just a migraine’ is quite the phrasing I’d use,” Lydia says.

Allison can’t help the ridiculous grin she feels spreading across her face. Lydia stares at her with growing confusion.

“What are you smiling about?” she demands, turning back to her article, highlighter at the ready. Allison’s pretty sure the next sentence Lydia highlights is completely irrelevant.

“You were worried,” Allison says, not even bothering to keep from sounding too satisfied.

“I was concerned,” Lydia amends. “Am I not allowed to be concerned about my girlfriend when she has a migraine?”

Allison smiles even wider at Lydia’s use of the word ‘girlfriend’ because it’s not a word she ever uses, it’s not a label they’ve ever bothered with, but Allison finds it’s suddenly nice to hear. “You were worried,” she repeats more quietly and lifts herself enough that she can kiss Lydia.

“And you need to brush your teeth,” Lydia replies. Always deflecting. It just makes Allison laugh. “Do you want anything to eat?” Lydia asks, trying to change the subject.

Allison lets her. She shakes her head and says, “I think I’m going to go back to sleep actually. I’m still pretty wiped.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“Are you kidding? It forces me to concentrate on this horrible article,” Lydia says, waving said article with disgust.

“It does look pretty terrible,” Allison agrees. “The size of that writing is enough to give me another migraine by proxy.”

Lydia gives her the side-eye, which distinctly says that isn’t funny, but adds, “I practically need a magnifying glass to read it.”

Allison huffs a laugh and then grabs her pillow to arrange over Lydia’s thigh so she can get back into the position she’d woken up in. 

“Oh now you get a pillow,” Lydia teases. “After you’ve already left a puddle on my pants.”

“I didn’t want to lie on the wet spot, actually,” Allison replies.

Lydia laughs, full and genuine, and says, “Of course.”

She lets Allison shift until she’s comfortable, then gets her hand tangled in Allison’s hair to rub at the base of her skull. Allison lets out a contented hum and promptly drops off to sleep again.

*

One night Allison awakes to the sensation of being socked in the jaw. Hard. She rolls back, nearly falls off the edge of the bed, and struggles against insistent sleep to pull herself into full consciousness.

She finds Lydia struggling in the sheets, limbs thrashing, and what looks to be blood smeared on her arms. Allison immediately bolts up and it takes her only a moment longer than it should to realize Lydia’s still asleep.

Allison has to fight against every screaming instinct that wants her to wrap her arms around Lydia and hold her tight. But she knows that’s the wrong thing to do, knows she’ll only make things worse. Instead she grips Lydia’s wrists tightly to stop her from hurting herself further and keeps her voice pitched low and steady as she repeats Lydia’s name. It’s enough to wake her.

Her eyes slowly shift into focus and then she’s breathing much too fast. She’s shivering and her hands start to curl into some semblance of fists. Allison lets go of her wrists in favour of rubbing one hand across Lydia’s shoulders and the other up and down her thigh while she rides this out. It’s not until she hears Lydia’s breathing even out that Allison notices she’s been murmuring nonsense at her the whole time.

“Shit,” Lydia says on an exhalation. Her voice is shaky and Allison can barely hear her over the pounding of her own heart. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Allison says, rubbing at her back some more. “It’s not your fault.”

Lydia rotates her arms, examining them, and Allison confirms that they are indeed smeared with blood from a series of scratches. She glances at Lydia’s fingernails, and yes, they’re bloody as well.

Allison wants to ask about a thousand questions about whether this has happened before, and was that a panic attack, and what on earth was she dreaming about (though she has a few ideas on that front, one in particular involving a certain deranged Hale). 

Instead she slides off the bed and says, “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Lydia swallows and nods, takes a deep bracing breath, and follows Allison to the bathroom. Allison keeps glancing back. Lydia’s feet are so quiet on the hardwood floor that she wants to make sure she’s still there. She’s trying to tamp down on the fierce, protective urge that’s clawing inside her chest, the one that wants her to lock Lydia in an embrace and never let anything touch her ever. 

Lydia looks smaller than usual, vulnerable and suddenly so, so young when she takes a seat on the lid of the toilet and waits while Allison gathers band-aids and polysporin from the medicine cabinet. Allison wants to brush the hair off Lydia’s face and tuck it behind her ears, wants to press kisses everywhere, but she doesn’t know what the protocol is here. If she’s right about what’s caused this—and she’s pretty sure she is—she doesn’t want to do anything that might act as a trigger and make it worse.

Allison kneels in front of Lydia with a warm washcloth. “Here,” she says, holding out a hand to let Lydia make the first move. When Lydia lays her arm in Allison’s hand without hesitation Allison lets herself breath an inner sigh of relief before gently wiping the blood away.

Lydia’s silent the whole time. Some of the scratches aren’t too bad and don’t merit being bandaged, but Allison smears most of her skin with polysporin anyway. She covers a few of the deeper ones that look like they hurt more and are still oozing blood, if slowly.

“Thanks,” Lydia says when Allison finishes. She sounds exhausted.

Allison doesn’t know what to say so she fills the cup they keep on the counter with water, which Lydia takes gratefully, downing almost the entire glass in a few gulps.

“That hasn’t happened in years,” she says, wiping at her mouth. She attempts a chuckle that falls flat and Allison chances stroking a hand over her hair. It’s the right decision because Lydia’s eyes fall shut as she leans into it and reaches up to grip Allison’s forearm.

“Did it used to happen a lot?” Allison asks, tentative, sure to keep it clear in her tone that Lydia is free to ignore the question should she so choose.

“A few times a month right after,” she says, confirming what Allison suspected without even having to specify what she’s talking about. “Not always with the scratching, thankfully. But with the nightmares and the panic attacks.”

She looks up at Allison and gives her a small smile. “Guess I’m going to be wearing long sleeves for a few days. Good thing it’s getting colder.”

Allison nods, trying to smile back and failing spectacularly. “I’m sorry,” she says, thinking back to that time and how much she neglected Lydia with everything that had been going on. How she’d never even thought to tell her what was going on. Never even considered it as an option.

“Don’t do that,” Lydia says. She reaches for Allison’s other hand and asks, “How would you feel about making me a cup of tea?”

Allison succeeds with the smile this time. “I think I can make that happen.”

*

Lydia is asked to present a paper at Cornell for a conference and it’s not until she’s been gone two days that Allison realizes it’s the first time they’ve spent apart since they moved in together. When she walks in the door upon getting home from work she’s about to ask if Lydia wants to order Thai for dinner, until she remembers she’s not there. 

It suddenly seems very quiet.

Allison does end up ordering Thai—just as much as she’d order if Lydia were there—and sits on the couch in her sweats flicking through channels of increasingly bad television growing increasingly annoyed at the fact that without Lydia it’s rather pointless to watch anything for mocking purposes alone. She ends up turning it off an hour in and finds herself reading case files in the bed that suddenly seems far too big, until that becomes just as irritating as the TV had been and she decides to go to sleep early.

If she finds herself hugging the extra pillow to her chest in the middle of the night it’s nothing anyone ever need find out about.

This goes on for three more days and Allison can’t tell if she’s more annoyed by Lydia’s absence or by her own absurd reaction to Lydia’s absence. She’s only been gone five days. Her flight gets in that evening. The whole thing is ludicrous and Allison doesn’t know what to do about it. 

It’s already noon on Saturday and all Allison has to show for herself is a folder with a coffee ring on it, the mug that caused said ring (contents now cold), and a half-eaten bowl of now-soggy cereal. It’s really quite pathetic. 

She’s startled out of her funk by a knock on the door and she jumps so hard she nearly knocks over her mug. It’s too early for it to be Lydia, so she gets up and attempts to straighten her hair by tucking stray pieces behind her ears. Her t-shirt has a hole near the armpit and her sweatpants have bleach stains, but there’s nothing she can do about that now.

Allison’s not sure who she was expecting—Girl Scouts, someone canvassing for donations, a Bible salesperson—but it definitely wasn’t Stiles and Danny.

“Surprise!” Stiles shouts when she opens the door.

“What?” is all she can manage in her shock.

Danny rolls his eyes at Stiles and gives her a warm smile, trying to make up for the abrupt greeting. “I think what Stiles meant to say was, ‘Hi Allison. Hope we’re not interrupting,’” Danny says.

“Pfft,” Stiles responds. “That opening was planned. How often do you get to yell ‘surprise’ at people? Not often enough. What are you wearing?” he adds when he takes in Allison’s appearance.

“I haven’t gotten dressed yet,” Allison says, a bit defensively.

“It’s nearly one,” Stiles reprimands, taking it upon himself to go inside. “This place is great!” 

“Thanks,” Allison says, shutting the door after Danny makes his way inside. “And I wasn’t exactly expecting company,” she adds.

“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles says, not sounding it at all. “Danny said we should call, but this was way more fun.”

“For you maybe,” Allison replies, but there’s no heat in it. She’s actually really glad to see them. It’s been almost a year and she’s only now realizing how much she missed them. “Hi, by the way,” she says to Danny and reaches up to give him a hug.

“How are you?” Danny asks.

“Oh, you know, working a lot.”

“Missing Lydia,” Stiles says, turning to get his own hug from her.

“She’s coming home today,” Allison says, which is not really a response to that, and somehow it comes out defensive.

“I know, she told me.”

“She doesn’t get in until six.”

“A little bird may have told Stiles that you sounded lonely,” Danny says.

Stiles shrugs sheepishly when Allison narrows her eyes at him and mutters, “Traitor,” under her breath.

“If it’s any consolation I think she misses you just as much,” Stiles says. “Do not,” he cuts her off as she opens her mouth to protest, “say that you don’t miss her because that is a lie and just because Lydia would never admit it, she hates being away from you. You did not hear that from me. Lydia will have my tongue for that.”

Allison laughs because she wouldn’t put it past Lydia.

“Okay,” Stiles says, clasping his hands together and pointing at her. “Get dressed. You’re going to give us a tour of Boston and then we’re having dinner at this place called Eastern Standard that Danny’s been waxing poetic about since we made plans to come here.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Danny protests. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows comically high and Danny shrugs. “You spent an hour on the plane talking about their cocktails alone,” Stiles reminds him.

“How would you know how long I spent talking? You fell asleep.”

It’s Stiles turn to shrug before he turns back to Allison. “What about Lydia?” she asks, because, well, that’s where her priorities are right now.

“She’s meeting us there,” Stiles says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

It suddenly strikes Allison, “You planned this!”

“Duh.”

“How long has Lydia known about this?”

Stiles narrows his eyes, “Since before she left?”

Allison lets her mouth drop open a bit as she shakes her head at Stiles.

“You’re forgetting who you’re dealing with,” Danny says.

“He’s right. Lydia and I have been apart for far too long if you so easily forget that we are the scheme queens. And, yes, I’m calling myself a queen in that scenario, but mostly for rhyming purposes.”

“Fine,” Allison says, putting on an air of great inconvenience even though she’s really happy to have them there. It’s good to keep Stiles’ ego in check though.

“Don’t sound so hard done by,” Stiles says, seeing right through her weary front, “I know you too well for that.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “Make yourselves at home. I’ll be half an hour.”

*

Two hours later she finds herself in one of the swan boats in the Public Garden because Stiles is ridiculous and insisted on doing the cheesiest tourist things available. He’s been taking pictures of absolutely everything, which is simultaneously tease-worthy and endearing (or at least Danny thinks so, if the fond expression on his face is anything to go by). 

By the time they reach the restaurant for their 7:30 dinner reservation Allison is worn out, but content, and mostly just looking forward to seeing Lydia. 

Lydia’s already there, waiting at a table and typing something on her phone. She has her hair half tied back so it’s off her face, probably because she didn’t have time to do anything else with it once she got off the plane. She obviously changed though. She’s wearing her low-cut cobalt blue dress with cap sleeves and Allison can’t help wanting to take her home and get her out of it.

When she looks up and spots them heading over, Lydia breaks into a wide grin and gets up to greet them. Stiles reaches her first and lifts her off the ground when he hugs her with an enthusiastic, “I’ve missed you!” Danny is more subdued, but still very obviously happy to see her. 

Allison smiles at her when she breaks from Danny and lets Lydia reel her in by the hands so she can kiss her thoroughly. Stiles clears his throat when it goes on a moment longer than would be considered decent and Allison lets herself fall into Lydia, her face buried in Lydia’s neck, when Lydia pulls away.

“Please,” Lydia says at Stiles’ affronted expression, “Like you and Danny haven’t done far worse.” 

“You look great,” Allison mutters as she follows Lydia onto the bench seat.

“Thank you,” Lydia says. “So do you.” And she gives her another quick peck before turning to her menu. 

Their legs stay deliberately pressed together under the table and Lydia keeps her hand on Allison’s thigh, thumb rubbing idle circles into the fabric of her pants. It’s incredibly distracting.

“How was your flight?” Danny asks.

“Oh, not bad,” Lydia says. “Short, luckily. Not long enough to let the airplane smell really sink in, though I think my hair could use a wash.”

“I’m sure you smell lovely,” Stiles says.

“She does,” Allison affirms, pressing her nose to Lydia’s hair to make a point. Truthfully, there is a bit of lingering airplane smell there, but it’s been mostly covered by a healthy dose of perfume and hairspray that is just Lydia.

“You two are gross,” Stiles says. “You know that, right?”

“I’m sorry, do you recall the first year you two starting dating?” Lydia reminds him, pointing her finger between Danny and Stiles. “It was so saccharine everyone around you started suffering from second-hand diabetes.”

“First of all: We are adorable,” Stiles defends.

“Affirmative,” Danny says helpfully. Stiles grins at him, a little dopey around the eyes.

“Second of all: second-hand diabetes is not a thing.”

“It is now. You created an entire new disease.”

The evening continues in much the same way: Lydia and Stiles fall into a pattern of banter that Allison has missed and she and Danny roll their eyes at each other, stupid fond smiles in place all the while. The food is delicious and the cocktails are even better and they all drink far too much, Lydia included, so that by the end of the night they’re laughing at nearly everything.

Allison’s drunk enough that Lydia’s hand on her thigh, which had only left it’s place there when Lydia was eating, is taking up most of the space in her brain and preventing her from carrying on a conversation. She’s trailing her fingers lightly at the juncture of Lydia’s neck and shoulder in retaliation. She knows it’s working by the way Lydia occasionally leans into it, obviously unintentionally, and the way her hand keeps moving further up Allison’s thigh until she’s dangerously close to rubbing her off under the table.

Eventually Allison gives up all pretence and leans over to press her lips to the spot under Lydia’s ear, nosing at her jaw as she does. Lydia’s fingers momentarily tighten on her leg and Allison grins in triumph.

“Subtle, Allison,” Stiles says.

“Look who’s talking,” Lydia says, and Allison’s pretty pleased with the way her voice comes out a little bit wrecked.

Then she looks up and smirks when she sees Danny nosing at Stiles’ temple.

“It’s time to get these two home I think,” Stiles says.

“You say that like you’re not looking forward to it,” Danny says.

“How did we end up with such nymphos?” Stiles asks, winking at Allison.

“Hmm, just lucky I guess,” Lydia replies. She detaches herself enough from Allison that she can scrawl her signature on their half of the bill and collect her credit card, and then she’s getting up and pulling her jacket on.

They say goodbye with the promise of seeing each other the next day for brunch and then Lydia laces her fingers with Allison’s as they hail a cab. Allison gives her hand a squeeze and presses closer, which Lydia responds to by bringing the back of Allison’s hand to her lips.

The cab ride seems to take ages. Allison lets her fingers rub at the base of Lydia’s neck through her hair while Lydia’s fingers tighten and flex on her knee, occasionally drift upwards, and then move back down, apparently thinking better of it. Allison thinks that’s probably for the best because she’s reached the level of drunk where she forgets shame and public decency exist. If she had her way she’d already have her hand up Lydia’s dress.

When the cab pulls up in front of their house they stumble onto the street, give the driver what is probably an absurdly generous tip, and hurry up the steps to the front door. Allison pushes Lydia back against it, really getting her fingers at her scalp so she can kiss her properly. Lydia responds by hooking one foot around Allison’s ankle and arching against her. By the time they break apart they’re both breathing like they’ve just climbed fifty flights of stairs.

Lydia lets out a frustrated noise before turning around and fumbling with her keys. Allison presses her face into the back of Lydia’s neck and runs her hands over Lydia’s hips and stomach. She didn’t think it was possible to want another person this much—not just sexually, though she really does want that, and soon, please—but in every way. In the way she wants to wake up and see Lydia in the bed beside her; in the way she wants the fridge to be stocked with soy milk because Lydia’s lactose intolerant; or the way she wants to find half-finished equations scrawled on the corners of magazines and bills around the house. She wants to crawl inside her and just be and she’s not really sure what to do with that so instead she lets her hand trail down the inside of Lydia’s thigh and then back up, bunching the fabric of her dress as she does so. 

Then the door swings open and they all but fall inside. Allison kicks the door shut and keeps herself pressed up against Lydia’s back as she moves her towards the nearest wall. Her hand continues its journey up the inside of Lydia’s thigh and stops to slip teasingly into the waistband of her lace underpants. Allison moans as her fingers brush the fabric, as she rubs over top of the dampening cloth and she brings her other hand up to cup Lydia’s breast, massaging gently, trying to brush over her nipple in spite of the layers of clothes.

Allison’s drunker than is really ideal for this, so when she finally does slide her hand down the front of Lydia’s underpants, it’s sloppy and not at all practiced. But Lydia gasps and bucks under her, so she figures it’s working. They’re so keyed up from the whole evening that she has Lydia coming in minutes, shaking against her and letting out soft mewling noises that Allison wants to swallow.

Then Lydia turns and draws Allison into a kiss, working her tongue into Allison’s mouth and drawing it seductively along the roof of her mouth and then across her top lip. Allison chases after her lips when she pulls away and Lydia smirks through her sex-dazed grin. Then Allison finds her back against the wall and feels fingers prying at the button of her pants and fighting with the zipper. Lydia tries to push them down, but they remain stubbornly in place, too tight to remove without significant effort.

“These are the worst pants,” Lydia says, breathless. “Really attractive pants, but terrible pants. Why would wear these pants?” She works her hand down the front of them anyway and slides two fingers over Allison’s clit. “How am I supposed to get a good angle?” she asks pushing her fingers inside Allison’s slick heat. Allison makes a keening sound that she’ll be embarrassed about later if she remembers it and bucks into it. Lydia gets a rhythm going despite her complaints, and Allison’s head falls back against the wall with a dull thunk.

“Oh God,” she groans. Even with the alcohol this is going to be fast. Lydia’s fingers should be illegal. Nothing should feel that good. 

She can feel the pleasure building in the pit of her stomach, a slow rising that coils with intensity until she breaks apart, her whole body shaking with it. Lydia eases her through it, slowing her movements and then pulling out. She sucks the fingers into her mouth and then wipes them on Allison’s pants. It really shouldn’t be that hot, but Allison can’t help the way her stomach clenches with residual tremors.

“Jesus Christ,” she says. Her head is buzzing, whether with satisfaction or intoxication it’s getting hard to tell. Probably it’s a little of both. 

Lydia kisses her a few more times, gentle and almost chaste, and then pulls her up to the bedroom where they both collapse on the bed, fully dressed and made-up, with their hair a little worse for wear and their limbs in a tangled heap.

Allison wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
